


Naughty or Nice

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casefic sort of, Christmas fic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Matchmaker!Lestrade, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Tumblr Secret Santa, for TakingToTheWind.  Lestrade is tired of watching John and Sherlock long for each other, so he gives them a little nudge.  Fluffy funny little Christmas one-shot.</p><p>Cross-posted to FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naughty or Nice

“Sir, don’t call him.  Please, you don’t need to get _him_ involved.  We can figure this out ourselves.”

Detective Inspector Lestrade grimaced and shot Sargent Sally Donovan an apologetic look, but did not stop tapping out the text message he was composing.  She huffed out an annoyed sound and rolled her eyes, but did not make any further comment.  Good, that meant her protest was just for form’s sake. 

He sent the message and shoved his phone back in his pocket before returning his attention to the stack of reports in front of him.  Twelve burglaries reported so far today, all clearly related.  He flipped open the top file.  Victim: Jeffrey Burgess, owned a dry cleaning shop.  Came home from work this afternoon to find his television and computer missing.  Doors were still locked, no evidence of forced entry.  And, best of all, the burglar had left a little calling card.  A note, informing Jeffrey that he had been naughty this year, along with several lumps of coal.  The note was signed “Santa Claus.”

Eleven more, all with similar tales.  For the most part, all the objects stolen were of low to moderate value in terms of money, televisions and computers and digital cameras – although one woman had had her car stolen, a single lump of coal sitting in its place in the garage.  In all cases there was no indication of forced entry and the doors were still locked when the victims got home.  Each victim had been given a similar note, all signed by Santa.  And, perhaps most interestingly, although all twelve burglaries took place in disparate locations around the city, they were all discovered and reported within about ten minutes of one another.

And although burglary was not, in fact, usually Lestrade’s division, he had accepted this case as a personal favor to DI Williams, who was baffled.  Williams had said it was because he was going on vacation for Christmas and did not have time to work the case himself, but Lestrade knew that it was really because he wanted Lestrade to bring in Sherlock Holmes to solve the case instead in an effort to close it before the publicity train really got started.  He had had to bite his tongue to stop himself offering Williams Sherlock’s number and inviting him to call the detective himself, but in the end he had managed to hold himself back.  That would not have been a charitable thing to do to poor Williams, who was in fact a very nice man.

Lestrade tilted back in his chair as Donovan left the office to get coffee, lacing his fingers together behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.  Santa Claus was apparently starting a little bit early this year, as it was still two days before Christmas.  He wondered whether there would be more burglaries reported tomorrow.

“Sir, we got another report.  Sounds like it’s related to the burglaries,” Donovan called through his open office door.  Lestrade leaned forward but did not stand.

“Take down the information and send a car over to do fingerprinting,” he called back.

“Actually, I think you might want to talk to her,” Donovan answered.  “This one’s different.”  His desk phone started ringing as Donovan transferred the call to him without waiting for a reply.  Lestrade sighed and picked up the phone.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered him, American accent immediately apparent in just that first word.

“Hello.  I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he repeated, managing to keep his annoyance out of his voice.

“Oh, yes.  Hello Detective Inspector, my name is Yvonne Makveni.”

“Miss Makveni, I understand you’ve had a break-in?”

“Yes, I just got home from work and found it like this.  Someone broke in and left me a note.”

“Let me guess, it’s from Santa?”

A girlish giggle came through the line.  “Yes, how did you know?”

“There have been a few other similar break-ins recently.  So, what was taken?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she said, sounding confused.  “Nothing was taken.  I came home and found this note from Santa telling me that I had been a good girl this year, and there was a brand new computer sitting in the middle of my dining table.”

“What?” Lestrade leaned forward over his desk, listening intently.  “Are you sure it’s not a gift from a friend?”

“I’m sure.  There aren’t many people who have a key to my apartment, and I checked with all of them.  I have no idea how this got here, but it’s not mine and I don’t want to keep it.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to send a car over.  Don’t touch the note or the computer.”

“Okay, thank you Detective Inspector.”

After he hung up, Lestrade stood and paced the room.  That was certainly unusual.  He wondered whether she was the only recipient of Santa’s gifts for good boys and girls, or whether other people had received things too and either decided not to report them or did not realize they were from a stranger.  Then he wondered if they might get more calls like this later, once people had time to figure it out.

He was still pacing when his mobile beeped.  With a relived sigh, he checked the text.

_Still not interested.  –SH_

Unsurprised, Lestrade replied quickly.

_There’s been another._

_How nice for you.  –SH_

_This time Santa left a gift, instead of taking one._

After a long pause, during which Lestrade nearly held his breath, his mobile beeped again.

_Text me the address, we’re on our way.  Bring the case files.  -SH_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The flat was in a fairly nice building in a cheap but not unpleasant part of town, the type of neighborhood usually filled with lower and middle class people who kept to themselves and seldom made trouble.  Lestrade did not have cause to visit this part of town often.  He waited on the pavement in front of the building until a black cab pulled up and disgorged John and Sherlock.  As they stepped out, John wore a large grin, which he wiped as soon as he saw Lestrade looking, and Sherlock was smirking.  As he turned to Lestrade, the smirk morphed into something sharper but did not disappear.

“Well?” Sherlock asked in a bored tone.

“Give us a second.  I was waiting on you,” Lestrade answered, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice.  He slapped the case file against Sherlock’s chest and pressed the buzzer next to the tag marked “Y. M.”

“Hello?” came the woman’s voice through the speaker, tinny and small.

“Miss Makveni, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.  We spoke on the phone?  I’d like to come up and check out your flat.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”  The door buzzed and Lestrade pulled it open.  He was not surprised when Sherlock brushed by him and headed up the stairs toward the second floor.  He held the door for John as well, who grimaced at him in apology as he went past, bounding up the stairs behind Sherlock.

Lestrade took the stairs more slowly, and by the time he reached the correct floor he could hear voices in the hall.  Rounding the corner he saw an extremely young and extremely good-looking woman standing in front of the open door to a flat.  Her arms were folded defensively in front of her and she was scowling up at Sherlock, who was looking back with his typical “stop being so dense” expression.  John fluttered around behind him, apparently trying to lean past and appease the woman but blocked by Sherlock’s enormous coat.

“You’re not the Detective Inspector,” she was saying as Lestrade approached. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.   “Thank god for that.”  He attempted to step around her and enter the flat, but she moved to block him and even leaned forward into his space, her chin thrust out.  Lestrade was impressed.

“I’m DI Lestrade,” he called out as he approached, hoping to head off a confrontation.  “That prat is Sherlock Holmes, a consultant for the Yard.  He’s helping with the investigation.”  Miss Makveni’s eyes jumped to him as he started speaking, and Lestrade was struck again by how attractive the young woman was.  Her eyes were huge, blue, and wide-set in a stunningly beautiful heart-shaped face.  Her lips were full and soft-looking, and her cheekbones could rival those of Sherlock Holmes himself.  He barely stopped himself from swallowing visibly as he continued to walk toward the group in front of the door.

“Could have told me that himself,” she said with a sniff, but she stepped aside.  Letting out an annoyed huff, Sherlock immediately swept past her and into the flat.  John paused before following him.

“I’m sorry about that.  My name is John Watson,” he said, extending a hand and offering his typical charming crooked grin.  Miss Makveni responded in kind, a small smile on her face as she shook the offered hand.

“Yvonne Makveni.  You can call me Yvonne,” she answered.

“Nice to meet you, Yvonne,” John said, his own smile widening.

“John!  Come here!” Sherlock barked from somewhere inside the flat.  John tipped his head toward the door in silent question, and then walked into the flat when the woman nodded.

Then she turned to Lestrade, hand still extended.  “Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector.”  Lestrade blinked.  He was not used to being addressed so calmly and politely by crime victims.  Of course, this was certainly an unusual situation.

“You too, Miss Makveni.”  He shook the offered hand.

“Yvonne, please.”  He nodded, and they went inside the flat.

The flat was sparsely decorated, with generic-looking furniture and few personal touches.  The dining table was in the kitchen, which adjoined the sitting room in a modern open floor plan.  As she had reported, a brand new computer sat atop the table, still in its box.  Sherlock was crouched on his hands and knees beneath the table, pocket magnifier out, slowly scanning the floor with eyes and one gloved finger.  Standing to one side, John watched with faint amusement, arms folded in front of his chest.  Lestrade noticed that his eyes lingered a bit longer than strictly necessary on Sherlock’s arse where it poked out from under the table, despite the fact that it was mostly concealed by his heavy coat.  When John licked his lips, Lestrade quickly averted his eyes, turning to speak to Yvonne instead.

“Can you show me the note?” Lestrade asked quickly, before Yvonne could start questioning Sherlock’s odd behavior.

“Sure, it’s over here,” she answered distractedly, her expression puzzled and her attention on Sherlock, who had pulled off a glove and was dragging his bare finger across the floor.  She led Lestrade into the sitting room and pointed to the note, which was on her coffee table.

“This is where you found it?” Lestrade asked, although he expected he knew the answer.  Her nod confirmed his expectation.  In all the burglaries, the notes had been left on sitting room tables, although the coal had been placed throughout the homes, typically in places where items had been removed.  Lestrade inspected the note.  Although he could not say for certain without forensic analysis, it appeared to be the same handwriting as the others.

From the kitchen, John whistled, and Lestrade looked up to see him bending over and closely examining the boxed computer on the dining table.

“I’ve never seen a computer like this before,” he said, almost to himself.  “What is it?”  The box displayed pictures of the computer inside, along with a list of specs.  In the pictures, the computer looked to Lestrade like the bizarre lovechild of steampunk and post-industrial design, with steel mesh panels, large fans, and red plates all riveted together in an asymmetrical pattern.

“It’s a Pure Luxury PC,” Yvonne answered.  “Very powerful and unnecessarily ostentatious.”  She sniffed.  “Ridiculous self-indulgence.”

“Looks pretty impressive, I’ll give it that.  How much does something like this cost?”

“Around six thousand pounds,” Yvonne answered.  Lestrade would have chuckled at the shocked expression that fell over John’s face at that if he was not sure that he was wearing the same expression himself.  Yvonne looked between them and grinned.  “I told you it was ridiculous.”  John nodded, smiling back at her.

Sherlock chose that moment to crawl out from under the table, dusting off his hands.  His eyes jumped quickly between John and Yvonne, still smiling at each other, and Lestrade saw his brow furrow just a tiny bit before he turned his attention on Yvonne.

“You work with computers.”

“Yes.”

His eyes raked up and down her form, and again Lestrade found himself impressed with the woman when she simply stood still and allowed it, not flinching even when Sherlock’s gaze rose to meet hers.  “You are young to be so highly educated.  You live alone and have few close friendships.  Your family still lives in America, and you don’t talk to them as often as you would like.”

“I… yes.  How could you tell?”  But Sherlock had already spun away from her and was walking around the perimeter of the room.  He continued until he reached the hall that led to the rest of the flat and then ducked into it, disappearing from their sight.

“What is he doing?” Yvonne asked, turning to John with a baffled expression.

“Who knows,” John answered, looking fond and exasperated.  “No doubt he’ll find a trace of mud or something on the carpet that will tell him exactly who did this and why.  He usually does.”

Her expression following this explanation was no less baffled, but amusement crept in as well.  Before she could comment, Lestrade walked back into the kitchen.

“So, tell me about your job.  You work with computers?”

“Yeah, I’m a computer consultant and IT specialist,” she answered.  John stepped closer and leaned in, clearly interested in the conversation.  Lestrade stepped back a little bit to let him take over – he knew that John Watson had a great deal of charm when he chose to employ it, and working with Sherlock had given him a good sense of the important questions to ask.

John and Yvonne continued to chat amiably while Lestrade moved about the flat, looking for clues despite Sherlock’s involvement.  After all, he had to at least try to do his job.  And, who knew?  It was just possible that he might find something that Sherlock missed.  John did it occasionally.  He kept a small fraction of his attention on the conversation between John and Yvonne as he inspected the flat, noting that John was carefully probing her for details about her workplace and the nature of her job, so gently that Lestrade doubted the young woman realized she was being interrogated.  He grinned to himself – he could make a damned decent copper out of John, if he had half a chance.

He was carefully inspecting the locks on the front door when Sherlock emerged into the kitchen from the back of the flat.  No obvious signs that they had been forced, although that did not really tell him much.  A skilled lockpick could get in without leaving any traces, especially with a cheap lock like hers.  Hell, Sherlock could have done it in under five minutes.

He straightened up and turned in time to see Sherlock’s searching gaze sweep across John and Yvonne, who were still in the kitchen standing a comfortable distance apart.  Again that little wrinkle appeared above his nose as he looked at the pair, who were leaning in toward each other, heads tilted together as they talked.  Both fell quiet when Sherlock entered the room, John turning to face him with an expectant expression while Yvonne raised a skeptical eyebrow and leaned back, crossing her arms.  Sherlock’s gaze focused in on her like a laser, and Lestrade found himself hurrying into the room, his instincts screaming at him that Sherlock was about to say something unforgivable.

“You have few close relationships.  Most of your socialization happens at work, and you are not in a romantic relationship right now, nor have you been in one recently,” Sherlock said without preamble.  “But you have had offers.  In particular, you have had a coworker ask you out repeatedly, and you’ve had to be very firm in turning him down.  I would guess that he does not work directly with computers – maybe a member of the custodial staff?  You’re concerned about his persistence, and have considered taking it to your company’s HR department.”

Well, overall that could have gone much worse, Lestrade decided.  He turned his eyes to Yvonne, braced for the typical negative reaction that Sherlock received when he was able to recite people’s personal affairs with such a creepy level of detail.  Instead, Yvonne’s crossed arms dropped to her sides and her already huge eyes opened wider.

“Wow, that was amazing,” she said in an awed voice.  “How did you know all that?”

Sherlock stood straighter at her comment, his eyes flicking to John and then back to her in a motion nearly too quick to see.  Then he turned his back on both Yvonne and John, directing his next comments to Lestrade.

“It was the man who has been pursuing her, the custodial worker.  He committed all the burglaries.  Arrest him and you’ll find the Santa suit that he wore while he was doing in, with a tear in the trousers matching the strip of red fabric found at the third scene.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise.  “Okay, explain.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath; Lestrade made out the words “simple”, “observe” and “waste”, and was grateful that he could not hear the rest of it.  Then Sherlock drew a deep breath and launched into his typical rapid explanation, pacing about the small kitchen, his hands flapping dramatically as he spoke.

“There are red fibers here, below the table, and more on the door jam.  I’m sure that if I inspected the other crime scenes I’d find similar things, but I didn’t have to because one of your constables actually did his job, amazingly, and wrote in a report that a small strip of red fabric was found caught on a splinter of wood on the table at one of the other burglaries.  He wore a Santa suit while committing the crimes, which fits with the overall theme of the incidents as well as providing a reasonable disguise.  I mean, honestly, who would expect Santa Claus to be burglarizing people?”

He turned to face Yvonne and continued.  “You clearly live alone, and do not have regular company, especially not someone staying overnight, that much is obvious from the state of your bathroom.  You have a page of notes out on a table in your room, where you have recorded some dates and times, as well as a few details about incidents where you had to ask a man to leave you alone.  You’re documenting incidents in case you need to report them, but you haven’t done so yet.  You also have a ticket from the dry cleaner belonging to one of the other victims crumpled up on the ground in your bedroom.  Lost your clothes, did they?”

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, who did not miss the impressed expression on Yvonne’s face.  From the corner of his eye, he also saw John regarding Yvonne with a small frown as she stared at Sherlock.  “It was obviously the custodial worker that has been harassing her.  He’s actually been stalking her, and committed these crimes in an attempt to get her attention.  You will find that all of the victims of theft were people who he believes caused her harm in some way, so he punished them.  Then he left this computer in an attempt to impress, because he knows that she is interested in such things, but he doesn’t have the technical knowledge to select an appropriately impressive machine so he chose an expensive one instead.  Really, Lestrade, this one was ridiculously simple.  Even you lot should have been able to figure it out.”

There was a beat of silence, and then John said “Fantastic!” at the exact same moment that Yvonne said “Amazing!”  Sherlock spun, coat flaring out dramatically, and looked between the two for a moment.  Then John and Yvonne looked at each other and both broke into giggles.  Sherlock continued to look between them as they laughed together, gaze searching, before whirling away and striding silently towards the door.

“Wait!” Lestrade called, hurrying to intercept Sherlock before he left the flat.  “I still have some questions.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped abruptly, stopping in the middle of the sitting room.

“Can you tell me how he got into all the buildings?”

“I should imagine that he is good at picking locks.  Oh, with the exception of this flat.”  Sherlock raised his voice slightly and called back over his shoulder.  “You should probably change your locks.  He recently took your keys and made himself a copy.”

“What?” Yvonne gasped, trailing John into the sitting room as Sherlock spoke.

“It would have been quick.  You probably didn’t even notice they were missing, if he did it while you were at work.”

“Okay, thanks for that Sherlock,” Lestrade said tiredly.  “Good advice, nice of you to mention it.  Now, about the case, can you tell me how he managed to pull off so many burglaries so far apart in such a short period of time?”

“Oh come on Lestrade.  This one is so obvious you shouldn’t even need to ask.  Maybe I should stop helping you out for a while – you’re clearly getting lazy.”  When Lestrade did not respond, just standing there with an irritated expression on his face, Sherlock let out a huff and then continued.  “He committed the crimes throughout the day.  There were just not discovered until approximately the same time, when each of the victims returned home from work or some other outing.  He obviously studied the victims’ schedules and chose a day when all of them would be out of the house until late afternoon.  It’s not that difficult to do.”  Before Lestrade could formulate another question, Sherlock left the room, disappearing down the hall toward the stairs.

John turned to Yvonne and offered his hand again.  “Well, better run.  It was nice to meet you.”  She shook his hand returning his smile, and then John hurried out of the room with a last tight smile to Lestrade.

With one last exasperated breath, Lestrade pulled his notepad out of his pocket and turned to Yvonne.  “What is the name of the man who has been bothering you at work?” he asked.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Lestrade was still in his office, wrapping up the paperwork on the burglary case, around 8 PM that evening.  Armed with Yvonne Makveni’s information, they had found the man with no trouble, and a brief search turned up the Santa suit, complete with torn trousers.  They had not found any of the stolen items; however, after questioning, their erstwhile secret Santa had confessed to the crimes and admitted that he threw all the stolen items into the Thames, except the car, which he just left on the street somewhere in London.

The man seemed sad, rather than dangerous, and because the value of the objects he took was fairly low he was not going to be in jail for long, even with the stalking charge added on.  Lestrade had also advised Yvonne to seek a restraining order, and to consider looking for another flat.  Just because the man appeared sad and harmless did not mean he was, and the fact that he had gone so far as to make himself a key to her flat was very concerning.

Lestrade was feeling fairly good about settling the case and avoiding the holiday media blitz that would have followed had the press gotten word of it before it was solved.  He was nearly finished with the paperwork and looking forward to going home when his mobile beeped.  He looked down and was unsurprised to see a text notification from John.

_Fancy a pint?_

Lestrade smiled to himself as he replied.  Sherlock must be in a strop; that was usually the reason John invited him out without making plans in advance.  Lestrade had a good idea what was wrong, too.

_Sounds good.  Usual place, see you in 30._

He finished up what he was doing and made it out of the office in twenty minutes, which gave him just enough time to hop a cab to John’s favorite pub, which was a short walk from the Baker Street flat.  As he entered, he saw John seated at a table, a pint of something dark in front of him and another pint of the lighter ale Lestrade preferred in front of the empty seat across from him.  He grinned at John as he slid into the seat and hoisted the chilled glass.

“Ta, mate,” he said before taking a drink.  The cold liquid slid down his throat, at once calming and refreshing, and he could feel the tension of the day lifting from his shoulder.

“Not a problem.”  John smiled at him.  “Thanks for coming out.”

“Sherlock being a wanker, then?”

John sighed.  “Ever since we got home from the Santa burglary.  Nothing but insults and stroppy silences and violin torture.  I don’t know what his problem is.”

Lestrade bit his tongue and took another drink of his beer.  He imagined that he had a pretty good idea what Sherlock’s problem was, but he had decided a while back that he was going to keep out of it, and let the two idiots figure it out for themselves.  However, he had not guessed that it would take them so bloody long, and he had to admit that it was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut.

John sighed again and took a long pull from his own glass before turning toward one of the large televisions mounted to the wall and changing the subject to football.  Somewhat relieved at the change of subject, which reduced the temptation to just grab John by the shoulders and shake him, Lestrade started happily grousing about the recent poor performance of his favorite team.

Several hours and many pints later, the conversation had travelled back around to Sherlock.

“– just don’t get it,” John was saying, carefully enunciating his words while he blinked blearily at Lestrade.  “Why’s he gotta be such a wanker all the time?”  Then he fell silent, looking at Lestrade as if actually awaiting an explanation for Sherlock’s general bad attitude.  And although that was typically a subject far too complicated for Lestrade’s pedestrian brain to unravel, he felt that he could help shed some light on why Sherlock was being such a wanker today, in this specific situation.

Tossing back the last of his beer, he threw caution to the wind.  They obviously were not going to figure it out themselves, and poor John just looked so lost and sad that Lestrade wanted to help him.

“Because he’s jealous.”

John blinked at him a few times, a puzzled expression falling across his face.  “What?  What does he have to be jealous about?  He’s the one with the genius brain and the ridiculous cheekbones and the gorgeous ar-,” he cut himself off abruptly, flushing.  “I might have had too much to drink,” he murmured to himself, looking down into his half-empty glass before shrugging and taking another swallow.

Lestrade resolutely suppressed his grin and pretended not to notice John’s slip.  “No, I mean he’s jealous of that woman today.  Yvonne.”

John squinted at him in confusion and didn’t say anything.  Lestrade sighed.

“He thinks you’re interested in her.  And I mean, you must admit, she really was very pretty.”

“What?  I’m old enough to be her father!” he paused.  “And why would Sherlock care, anyway?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!  He fancies you, you idiot!”  Lestrade managed to restrain himself from reaching over and whacking John in the head to really drive his point home.  He felt rather proud of his self-control.

“He… what?  No, that’s not… He doesn’t…,” John was stammering, staring at Lestrade with his eyes as wide as they could go.  Lestrade nearly giggled at his gobsmacked expression, but managed to keep it in.

“Yes he does, and he has for months.  And frankly, I’m sick of watching you two dance around one another and waiting for you to catch on.  You obviously fancy each other.  Now go do something about it!”

“Greg, I think you’re drunk.  Sherlock isn’t interested in… that kind of stuff.”

Lestrade noticed that John said nothing about his own feelings.  He rolled his eyes.  “I am certainly drunk, but it’s still true.  Maybe he wasn’t before, but he definitely is now.  I’ve known him for a while, and I’ve never seen him act like this.  So for the last time, he _fancies_ you.”  He fell quiet, waiting expectantly for John’s reaction.

John said nothing, just stared back at Lestrade looking shocked.  Lestrade leaned forward and dropped his voice, looking John directly in the eye.

“Look, just go home.  I’ll bet you twenty quid he’s waiting up for you, and another twenty that if you just tell him how you feel, you’ll be snogging within five minutes.”

John leaned back in his chair after Lestrade finished and looked away, his gaze wandering around the space of the pub without coming to rest on anything in particular as he thought.  Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave one short sharp nod.  He stood up and dropped a few bills onto the table.

“For the drinks.  I’m going to… uh… head home then.”

“Right.  Good luck.”

John flushed, ducked his head, and smiled just a little bit.  Then he turned and marched quickly out of the pub without another word.  Lestrade grinned to himself and leaned back in his own seat.  He would get one more drink to celebrate, he decided, and then head home himself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Nearly a week later, Lestrade had not heard from either John or Sherlock, and he had almost completely forgotten their conversation that night at the pub.  The very next morning, Christmas Eve day, a somewhat hung-over Lestrade had been handed a serious case involving a nasty triple murder and he had been working almost non-stop ever since.  However, despite his diligence, two more murders had occurred since then which appeared to be connected, and the Yard was stymied.

Lestrade texted Sherlock, asking for his assistance, but did not receive a reply.  After two hours and four more texts, he tried texting John instead.  When he still did not hear back, he started to feel worried, so he grabbed the keys to his panda car and headed over to Baker street.

He rang the bell and Sherlock’s sweet old landlady, Mrs. Hudson, let him in.  He explained to her that he was just checking in on Sherlock, who had not been answering his texts, and she stepped back out of the doorway to let him pass.

“The boys are fine, they’re just upstairs,” she told him as he entered, with a twinkle in her eye that he could not decipher.  “It was a bit loud a little while ago, but they’re quiet now so it’s probably safe to go on up.”

“Fighting again, are they?” Lestrade asked absently as he started up the stairs.  Maybe that was why they were not responding to his texts.

“Something like that,” Mrs. Husdon’s amused response floated up after him, but he barely heard it.

When he reached the first floor landing, the door to the flat was closed, for the first time in his experience.  Without thinking, he opened the door and leaned inside.

John and Sherlock were entwined together on the sofa, Sherlock’s long arms wrapped completely around John as they kissed.  At Lestrade’s entrance they sprang apart, John blushing as he leapt to sit at the end of the sofa near Sherlock’s feet.  Sherlock remained where he was, stretched out on the sofa in a dressing gown and soft cotton trousers, looking defiantly back at Lestrade with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes?” Sherlock drawled lazily.

“You weren’t answering my texts.  I just came to make sure everything was alright,” Lestrade answered, grinning hugely.

“Everything is fine,” Sherlock answered in his “don’t be an idiot” voice.  “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re a bit busy.”

Lestrade looked back and forth between Sherlock, with his attitude of complete indifference, and John, who appeared equal parts delighted and embarrassed, and grinned even wider for a moment.

“Right, well, I have a case for you.  Text me when you’re free and I’ll give you the details.  Afternoon!”  And he left, shutting the door behind him, still smiling widely.

Halfway down the stairs, he heard the door opening.  He paused and turned to see John hurrying after him, still clad in his pajamas.  Without a word, John thrust something into his hands before offering him a shy smile and then turning to head back up the stairs.

Looking down, Lestrade saw that John had given him forty quid.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at a (sort of) casefic. I would love to hear what people think of it, so that I can write a better one next time.


End file.
